The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  If caught in a pinch, he could tuck away his meat hammer without anyone being the wiser, especially his bright-eyed son, Cody.

  “I’m old,” said Harry. “I can wear what I want. Am I embarrassing you?”

  “No, you’re embarrassing yourself. You’ve done it for years. I suppose I should be used to it by now.”

  Cody had always been a good boy, and Harry’s unspoken favorite. It was not that he didn’t enjoy Heather’s company, but as she grew older, she began to take on the less desirable aspects of her mother, namely that she didn’t enjoy his fabric fetish. It probably didn’t help matters that she’d walked in on him plunging her prom dress two days before the prom. And it certainly didn’t help matters that he’d finished himself off instead of stopping, and that Heather had stood watching, mortified. It was at times like those that Harry questioned his stubborn fortitude, but it was a fleeting hesitancy in commitment that had never merited a change of behavior.

  “Turn away!” he’d barked to his pimpled and plump teenage daughter. She’d burst into tears as she got an eyeful of her father’s furry ass squeezing and shaking. She’d refused the replacement dress he bought her, instead looking to her mother for support and, well … sanity. Their relationship became strained from then on. The only gifts he was allowed to give her were books. He made sure to line her shelves.

  Cody looked over the menu. “How’s Mom?”

  “Your mother? She’s fine, I guess.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What?”

  Harry’s distraction had already begun. His wrinkled penis was out and flirting with the overhang of green tablecloth, teasing it as one would an old lover. Cody sat up straight, and leaned in.

  “What are you doing, Dad?”

  Mr Ding Dong went back under wraps, the elastic waistband snapping loudly.

  “What? Me? Nothing, Cody. Tell me about you. How’s work?”

  “Work is fine.”

  Cody’s interest in his father’s subterranean activities at the table had been piqued, and his eyes were narrowed and probing. Like his sister, he too had had his share of jarring experiences with the old man, but unlike his fairer sibling, he could empathize, somewhat. After all, he was a producer in the adult entertainment industry, a career choice Harry had applauded, and Laura had merely accepted.

  “What news did you want to tell me, Dad?”

  Harry squirmed in his seat, rattled. He called for a moment by raising his hand, then took a drink of water. “Your mother and I are separated,” he blurted.

  “What? When?”

  “As of today. She’s staying with your sister for two weeks. I have to get out of the house while she’s away.”

  Cody sat back, shoulders slumping. “But … why?” Then his eyes flickered with knowing, and became angry. “Wait. Don’t tell me why. I already know. You’re un-fucking-believable, Dad.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “That’s what who says? Who would say that? The clothes at the Laundromat? Are you dating a trophy pair of silk panties now?”

  As Harry moved to point an irate finger at his son, he inadvertently knocked over a glass of water. The cool liquid seeped into the green tablecloth, conjuring images of bikini beauties washing cars, or young lovers fucking in the surf, or … a wet, green tablecloth.

  Harry’s patience and control suddenly met an abrupt and bitter end. Leaping from the booth, he ripped the cloth from the table, then sprinted toward the bathroom, leaving befuddled patrons, staff, and son in his panting wake.

  Once inside the stall, he had trouble getting his pants down. Despite the easy access the elastic offered, his raging erection had become a nuisance, an uncooperative child, thickly hindering the lowering of his britches. Not to be outdone by his manhood, Harry tore the sides of his pants to free himself, then laughed maniacally as the garment pooled around his ankles.

  “My cock!” he exclaimed. “My whore!”

  Harry cradled the tablecloth like a dancing partner and, as he bent deeply in a convoluted dip of reverence and passion, the sheer joy of this union, as well as the rush of myriad broken mores, fired his cock with girth and life. Even his speech became antiquated, a cry to older times, a cry to the ageless libertine within, a cry of gluttonous whimsy.

  “I shall now fuck thee, my luscious, whorish damsel!”

  Then a cautious knock met the door of the stall, followed by an equally guarded voice. “Dad? You need to come out. We need to leave. If you don’t, they’re going to call the police.”

  “But lo!” boomed Harry. “A true test of my will and resolve! I shall not be denied!”

  “Um, Dad? You will be denied, or you will leave in handcuffs. The manager is here with me, and she’s not happy.”

  Cody stooped to peer under the door. Harry looked down at his son’s face. Initially confounded by the sadness it possessed, Harry’s torrent of hedonist confusion thinned as he studied the boy’s pained blue eyes and helpless lips. The boy resembled his mother in the cheekbones and chin, and for a calm moment, Harry could actually see himself, see what he was doing. Never before had he viewed himself in this way, never before had he witnessed himself mirrored on the face of his own flesh and blood. The portrait was crippling, and the green tablecloth slid from his hands.

  “I’ve lost control,” he whispered.

  “I know, Dad. Come with me. Let me help you.”

  The rush of sobriety came quickly and candidly, and Harry blubbered like an infant. “I’m so sorry, my boy. What an embarrassment I have become.”

  “It’s okay, Dad. Just pull your pants up and let’s leave. The manager has agreed not to phone the police. They know your wife just died.”

  “My what? Laura is dead? Tell me it’s not so!”

  Cody, still crouched, turned his head and winked up at his father. However, Harry, in his weakened state, missed the signal and crumbled to the floor. The toilet paper holder popped on his way down, spilling sheets and sheets of tissue.

  “My Laura,” he wailed. “My poor, poor Laura.”

  He flailed in the toilet tissue, then, struck with the oddities of grief, he began funneling it around his head. Once he’d successfully mummied himself, he pushed his tongue through the whiteness, and wagged pink, bawling. His hulkish erection settled on the tile, a broken soldier too long at war … with nothing.

  Cody worked himself under the door and into the stall. Hooking his father under the armpits, he pulled him to his feet. “We have to go, Dad.” Then, hushed, “Mom is okay. I just told the manager that so they don’t report this as some sort of sex crime.”

  Harry’s limp body jolted with life, and he embraced Cody. “My boy!” he said, mouth filling with frayed edges of toilet tissue. “My boy! I love you, my boy!”

  The manager tapped an anxious shoe just beyond the door. “Is everything okay in there? I’m sorry about your wife, sir. But you understand, we can’t have outbursts like this at the restaurant.”

  “I understand,” spat Harry, ejecting gummy white balls on to Cody’s cheeks. “I understand that some things are best kept behind closed doors.”

  Then Harry laughed, blind behind the toilet tissue, limp cock rubbing against the belly of his only son.

  Cody helped his father unravel, then, discovering that the old man’s pants had been rendered useless, he worked out a deal with the manager in which a few bills were passed. Harry walked out of the restaurant with his face hidden on his son’s shoulder. He walked past the slack-jawed staff and the snickering patrons, his gait broken, yet strangely proud. The tail of the green tablecloth, which had been fashioned into a makeshift skirt, swooshed elegantly behind him.

  “So, you’re like … Cody’s father?”

  “I am,” said Harry.

  Harry sat on the chair while the woman strutted and bounced around the room. She was tall and thick, tits squeezing out of a bra two sizes too small. She was the result of good breeding. Harry wondered what her folks must have looked li
ke when they made her. “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “Texas.”

  She danced to a halt in front of Harry, then, curling her arms behind her back, she unclasped the bra. The straps trickled from her shoulders and down her arms, twin cups falling and displaying hard nipples and soft, soft skin. Harry wasted no time yanking his cock from his shorts. The woman grinned.

  “Now listen, honey, Cody told me that you’re not to touch me, and I’m not to touch you. Can we handle that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Harry snapped at the bra as she dangled it in front of his face. His hands wrestled the socks from his feet.

  “Give them here,” she said.

  Harry began balling them, but she asked him to stop.

  “Leave them long, sugar,” she cooed. Then she giggled and licked her lips.

  “Why have I never met anyone like you?” asked Harry.

  “Because you never looked,” she said. She flicked her wrist, and the bra crashed on to Harry’s face. Then she pulled down her panties, string-thin and black. Her pussy was clean and swollen, and when she kicked up a leg to wedge her heel on to the back of the chair, it threw enough heat to warm Harry’s nose. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

  “You smell so good,” he said.

  The woman smiled as she wiggled her hands into Harry’s socks. “You should smell my panties, you little bitch.”

  Harry leaned forward to retrieve them, fingers greedy.

  “Watch your face now, sugar,” she warned. “Don’t you touch this hot snatch of mine. You know the rules.”

  Harry took care to avoid contact, his face curling with great deftness along the length of her toned thighs, his eyes never once losing sight of her pussy. Gripping the panties, he leaned back, and sighed.

  “You okay, sugar?” she asked.

  “Never better.”

  “Good,” she said, hips rocking, pink lips inches from his face. “Let’s do some work.”

  She pulled Harry’s socks to her elbows, fabric groaning. Wearing the socks like filthy gloves, she began petting her pussy, at first with one hand, then two. The flow of her movements gave the garments grace, and Harry’s horn surged upward, straining dangerously close to her oiled thighs.

  “Put my panties in your mouth,” she moaned, head back, eyes fluttering wildly behind closed lids. Harry did as he was told.

  “You fucking bitch,” he said, sucking the panties, tasting, biting, chewing. He knotted the bra around the base of his cock, trapping the blood, engorging the organ, creating a bottled symphony of power and come. “You’ve helped me to be a man again,” he said.

  “Shut up, bitch.”

  “You’ve helped my family in ways you don’t even know.”

  “Shut up, cunt,” she snapped.

  Her hands moved sensually, slowly, then quickly like a woodsman learning to love a tree. Her covered fingers were the tools, her pussy the soft cherry. She kept busy, pressing her clitoris and spreading the folds. Harry’s leathery mitt cranked his cock forcefully, the clips of the bra chafing his balls. Their respective trees teetered, then picked up momentum. She fell as Harry fell.

  “Bitch,” they muttered in unison.

  Her mouth opened, then locked. A trapped scream bled out in a staccato chirp. “Uh. Uh. Uh. Ah. Ah. Ah.”

  Harry spat out the panties, then wrung them around the head of his cock, bulbous and purple, true royalty once more, a rising Colonel. “You whore!”

  “Oh, sugar!”

  Her leg bucked, and the chair rocked back. She tried to quell the gush with her hands, but the spray was determined, and those juices that didn’t immediately saturate the dirty sock-gloves covered Harry’s face.

  “B-b-bitch!” he stuttered, himself a victim of orgasmic eruption, the seed discharging from his weapon like double-ought shot. Globs of gooey man-love stuck to the smoothed crease behind her extended leg, the place where thigh meets ass, the place where lips dote, and fingers lose themselves. When the crack and splinter of the fallen trees had settled, the woman dressed herself in a robe and then stretched out on a velvet couch. Harry tied his shoes, lips fixed in a permanent grin.

  Cody had told his father to wear a suit. After he’d parked the car in front of the home of his slightly estranged but always loving daughter, Harry stepped on to the sidewalk wearing his finest three-piece.

  “Laura!” He waved.

  Laura stood on the porch flanked by the children. Cody held his father in a steadying gaze. Heather, making no effort to mask her disgust, stared off in the distance. Laura, fresh from the beauty salon and wearing a green dress professionally stitched from the infamous tablecloth at her son’s request, stood tall and open, eyes kind, if not a bit weary.

  “It’s great to see everyone together,” said Harry, moving to embrace the children. Cody stepped up and accepted the arms of his father.

  Heather slid to the side and nodded. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hello, Heather. Is Rita here?”

  “No.” Heather frowned. “She’s at a rally. I should be there too.” Harry had forgotten that his daughter’s lover was extremely active in the lesbian/feminist movement. Now that he’d had time to reflect, after years of being clouded, he wondered if Heather might’ve liked the cock a bit more if she hadn’t caught him plowing her prom dress way back when. Not that it mattered much to him, he wasn’t averse to his daughter’s lesbian lifestyle, but he simply wondered now if things would’ve been different if he hadn’t been so selfish. He leaned in and kissed her cheek before she had time to pull away.

  “Okay, Dad. That’s enough.”

  Lastly, Harry turned to Laura, beautiful Laura who he’d neglected for far too long. With full eyes, blue and penitent, he knelt at her feet. “I’m so sorry, my dear Laura. I’ve been so lost in my fetish that I’ve forgotten just how beautiful you are.”

  “Do we have to be here for this?” asked Heather.

  Cody shushed her.

  Harry kissed the top of Laura’s hand. “Our son has helped me, Laura. Our beautiful son. And you too, Heather. Your presence here today means the world to me.”

  “Sure, Dad. Whatever you say.”

  Harry’s eyes climbed the curves of Laura’s body, then nestled in her shaking smile. “I love you, Laura. I always have, and always will.”

  “I love you too, Harry,” she said, hot tears breaking the crest of her cheekbones. “And I want to be a part of your world. I want you to fuck me in this dress. I want you to fuck this dress after you fuck me. I want us to fuck each other while the whore you see fucks herself with our clothes. I want us to be whole again.”

  Harry buried his face in Laura’s crotch, allowing himself to smell her cunt, still vital after all this time. That it was cloaked in the rough fabric of the green tablecloth made the experience even sweeter. The onetime bane of his existence had now, at last, become his boon.

  The Lady and the Unicorn

  C. Sanchez-Garcia

  Consider the handiwork of God; who can straighten what He has made crooked?

  Ecclesiastes 7:13

  Blood has a range of taste, as scent has a range of aromas. Blood has a high level taste and an under taste. It is a blending of elements like music. This is also the way of scent. The under aroma tells you there is a trail and betrays to you the direction. If the scent becomes fresher you are following the creature that produced it, so you must use the under scent to know which direction is older and which is newer. It is as though the air were filled with singing voices and you are picking out from the choir the sound of a single voice. The high scent will tell you the individual, the condition of the individual, if it is injured or sick, horny or filled with fear. It will tell you how to catch him, where he is likely to run to. To acquire the high scent the animal, or myself, must pause to commune with the air and pay attention. Close the eyes. Hold the nose still and just so. Let the night air speak. It is the same with the deep taste of blood, except that scent is on the move, and if you are tast
ing the blood – well. It is no longer on the move.

  I have survived so long by being aloof, as any hunter does. We do not love or hate that which we hunt. The wolf does not hate the deer. The deer does not feel sorry for itself. An endless life of repetition is borne only by solitude and indifference. Love and eternity do not go well together, the way people think. Love is meant to die. Your love will die too. One must be alone and apart to bear eternity without sentimentality or self pity. With nothing new, one must be cruel sometimes to relieve the boredom. To love is to feel the full burden of your damnation. It is a marvelous and mortal wound. When one pierces this shield of emptiness, it is a disaster.

  I had been safe in my pose as a fatal little marionette holding forth the sulky lure of lust but feeling none, until kuschelbaer imbued me with love and his life, knowing me for what I am, and taking me. Like the wizard in the story he has bestowed on me a heart. Now this abandoned heart has put me on his scent, a hellhound hunting him down to keep his promise to make of me a real girl.

  He left me during the day in a trail of strewn clothes and broken dishes all through our little house. And other things also, which he left behind and I have brought with me in a little gym bag I carry in my hand as I walk down the dirt road following his scent. Because of what is carried in this bag, I know he loves me still. He could not have left behind a sweeter valentine.

  I have followed his scent for two nights. If it were not for the delay of the daytime, I would have had him already. I want to give him his bag. I want to talk about the things that are upsetting him so. This is not a chase that I enjoy, it is of necessity. My love is building in me like madness. It will explode into something terrible if it is not released.

  Walking at night in the country, alone, down dark dirt roads, close to the pure land like those midnight forests of my old Germany, there is always the smell of smoke over everything. It is so much as that place where I lived as a pink young girl in the sun, that if a cuckoo bird should call from the trees I think my wicked heart would break into a thousand grieving stars. But I have his scent held fast. There is a bit of my own scent mixed with it from the year of lovely nights I rolled in his arms, and I would know it and follow it anywhere.